Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  OTHER MEN’S SINS

  A Maxwell Graham Mystery Thriller

  Lawrence Falcetano

  Other Men’s Sins

  A Maxwell Graham mystery thriller

  Copyright © 2020 Lawrence Falcetano

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without prior written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First Edition

  “Other men’s sins are before our eyes,

  Our own are behind our backs.”

  Seneca—Roman philosopher

  DEDICATION

  To my wife, Susan:

  For sorting through the bad to find the good

  For making it clear and understood

  For sorting through the wrongs to make them right

  For walking in the dark to light the light

  The light shines!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 1

  I stepped into the front entrance hall of the rectory, stomping rainwater off my shoes. There were a few plainclothes and uniform police on the scene, and forensics had already arrived. I spotted Chief Briggs standing by the doorway of Father Conlon’s office. He had that look on his face that told me it was bad, something different, and something more than the everyday homicides we were accustomed to. I shook off a chill that wiggled up my spine as I started toward him. I walked past him and into the office without saying a word.

  A large fluorescent light fixture in the ceiling lit the office bright despite the gloominess outside. The perimeter walls were covered with polished wood panels, and two overstocked bookshelves stood on either side of a floor to ceiling window that looked out onto a flowered courtyard. On a far wall, behind a large mahogany desk, hung a large brass crucifix surrounded by several framed documents attesting to Father Conlon’s academic achievements. A large potted plant stood in one corner of the room, while two leather armchairs and a metal file cabinet in an opposite corner made up the rest of the furnishings. My partner, Danny Nolan, was talking to a couple of forensics people and writing in his notepad, while a young detective I didn’t know, dusted for prints.

  On the carpeted floor, next to the desk, lay the body of Father Andrew Conlon. The random holes in his chest and abdomen told me he had been stabbed multiple times; blood from each wound hole had bubbled up like an effervescent brook and trickled down both sides of his white shirt until it pooled onto the maroon carpet; his vacant eyes, in horror and surprise, looked up at the vaulted ceiling. It was tough for me to see my longtime friend and mentor in such a way.

  What kind of thing could do this to another human being, I thought, particularly a holy man? I had seen lots of murders during my time in the homicide bureau, but none as heinous as this. What motivates a person to commit such butchery?

  I looked away as Chief Briggs came up beside me. “Custodian found him this morning,” he said.

  “What’s the t.o.d.?”

  “Between eight p.m. and midnight. The autopsy will tell us more.”

  Autopsy! Associating that word with Andy Conlon made me queasy.

  Two guys from the medical examiner’s office came in wheeling a gurney with a body bag on it. They placed Andy Conlon’s body into it, zipped the bag close, and began to wheel it out. I walked back into the entrance hall. Briggs followed.

  Mike Briggs stood six feet-four and cultivated a gray mustache that sat obliquely beneath his beak-like nose and matching head of gray hair. He had the physique of a bodybuilder, and in the twelve years that I’d worked for him, I’d seen him handle himself with the greatest of ease against the largest of thugs. He could be as hard as nails and strictly by the book but compassionate and understanding, as well. A widower for five years, his daughter and her husband and his five grandchildren had filled his personal life since the untimely passing of his wife. Briggs ran the detective bureau by his own set of rules. Despite his tough reputation, any cop that worked for him was glad he did. Over the years, I found him to be a good friend when I needed one.

  An August rain beat heavily against the stained glass of the rectory window as I opened it a few inches to let in some fresh air. The area was beginning to get stuffy as more people arrived to do their part in the investigation.

  “He was like a part of my family,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Briggs said. “How long have you known him, Max?”

  “Since I was a kid,” I said. “He taught me my catechism.”

  “He doesn’t seem old enough.”

  “He was fresh from the seminary then. Later he married Marlene and I and baptized my daughters.”

  I looked at Briggs with as much seriousness on my face as I could muster while trying to abate my anger. “I want this one,” I said.

  “You got it,” he said. “The department will give you every resource.”

  I was thanking Briggs as Detective Nolan walked over to us. He began reading from his notepad. “No sign of forced entry,” he said. “His desk is undisturbed, and his wallet is still in his pocket with forty-six dollars in it.”

  “Rules out robbery,” Briggs said.

  “And B&E,” Danny added.

  “What does that leave us?” I said.

  “A vengeance killing?” Danny said.

  “Who takes revenge out on a priest?” Briggs said.

  We looked at each other for an answer...nobody had one.

  As I watched the ME people push the gurney carrying the Father’s body toward the front door, I wondered how I was going to break the news to my ex-wife, Marlene. She’d be more than upset. Andy Conlon hadn’t been just a priest to us. He had been a part of the ups and downs of our lives, and a good friend to both of us during our nineteen-year marriage, and a symbol of strength during our divorce proceedings. Our daughters grew to love him almost like a second father. The void would be a great heartache for them as well. I was particularly concerned about my mother. The news of Father Conlon’s death would be devastating to her. He had been like another son to her during the years when my brother and I were growing up.

  My stomach was feeling queasy again.

  “Where’s the guy that found him?” I said.

  “Garcia’s with him,” Danny said. “He’s about to take him downtown for a statement.”

  “I wanna talk to him first,” I said.

  Briggs put his big hand on my shoulder; “I’ve got a meeting,” he said. “Anything you need, come see me.”

  I thanked him again, and he and Danny headed toward the main entrance. Briggs paused to s
ay something quick to Garcia before he and Danny left by the front door. I walked across the vestibule to where Garcia was standing with his arms folded over his chest, looking like he wished he were somewhere else.

  Miguel Garcia was a good cop and seasoned veteran in homicide, but Monday mornings were always a tough go for him. He liked to tip his elbow on weekends, and it usually took him at least until midday Monday to get his act together.

  A young man in a short-sleeve shirt and work overalls was sitting on a wooden bench behind Garcia. He looked in his mid-twenties, well-groomed and handsome. His blonde hair was neatly cut and styled, and his skin glowed with a healthy tan; beside him on the bench, he laid a leather pouch crammed with hand tools. He was twisting a pair of unsoiled work gloves in his hands, not nervously, but as if to do something to occupy his time while he waited. He didn’t present the picture of a custodian but looked to me more like a young lawyer doing weekend work around his own home. When I approached them, Garcia turned to the young man and said, “This is Detective Graham. He needs to ask you a few questions.”

  The young man looked up at me with a nod and a smile.

  Good start, I thought.

  “Have you spoken to anyone yet?” I said.

  Before he could answer, Garcia said, “Chief wants him in for a statement as soon as you’re done. I’ll wait by the door.”

  As Garcia ambled toward the front door, I sat on the bench. The young man placed his work gloves on the bench next to him and slid over a bit to give me room. His demeanor was calm and obliging, and he didn’t seem the least bit unsettled by the tragedy he’d discovered less than an hour earlier. Something about that bothered me.

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  “Davy Crockett,” he said.

  If this guy thought he was being funny, he was about to find my fist in his face. I wasn’t in the mood. He saw my look and said, “That’s my real name, David Crockett.” He removed his driver’s license from his wallet and showed it to me without my asking. I looked at it and nodded. He put it away.

  “Happens every time,” he said.

  Okay, I thought, an easy name to remember.

  “Tell me what happened this morning…Davy.”

  He inched up toward the front edge of the bench seat and without having to think about it said, “I went to Father Conlon’s office around 6:00 a.m. to replace an electrical outlet he had reported to be faulty.”

  “Are you sure of the time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I met Father Faynor on the stairs. He always takes his morning jog at 6:00 a.m.”

  “Do you usually start work that early?”

  “Sometimes, if I got a lot of catching up to do. I live in the third-floor apartment here in the rectory. It makes my job a lot easier.”

  “No morning traffic to fight,” I said.

  He missed the levity and continued. “I knew it would be a good time since the Father wouldn’t be in his office that early.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “He’s rarely in his office before eight in the morning.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I walked in—”

  “Was the door locked?”

  “I have a master key for every room in the rectory and church, but I didn’t have to use it.”

  “So, the door was not locked?”

  “Yes, it’s weird because Father Conlon always locks his office door at night.”

  “Does anyone else have a key?”

  “Father Conlon. It’s his office.”

  I nodded. He continued.

  When I went in, I saw Father Conlon lying on the floor beside his desk. The reading light on his desk was on, and I could see him. His mouth was open, and his eyes were wide, staring up at the ceiling. I never saw a look like that on anybody.

  Crockett’s description of what he’d seen made my stomach queasy again, not because of the morbidity of details but because of the personal nature of the crime. It was hard for me to think of Andy Conlon that way.

  “What did you do next? “

  “I froze for a moment until my mind cleared. Then I ran out and woke up Monsignor Belducci. After I convinced the Monsignor, he wasn’t having a nightmare, he called the cops.”

  “Did you or the Monsignor go back to the office after he notified the police?”

  “No way. We waited by the front door of the rectory until they got here.”

  “While you were in the office, did you see anything unusual, anything out of place or disturbed?”

  “Didn’t have time. When I saw the body, I got my ass outta there.”

  “Did you see anyone else around?”

  “Just Father Faynor on the stairs.”

  “Does Father Faynor live in the rectory too?”

  “On the second floor like the other priests.”

  “What was he doing when you saw him?”

  “Jogging down the steps, on his way out.”

  “Did you exchange words?”

  “He asked me why I was up so early. I told him I had work to do in Father Conlon’s office.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing, he just jogged out the front door.”

  “Do you have a regular schedule for cleaning the offices?”

  “I give all the offices a quick clean daily.”

  “What’s that entail?”

  “Emptying trash pails and vacuuming, it’s part of my schedule. The heavy cleaning is done when it’s needed, you know, washing windows, and furniture polishing and such.”

  When I got up, he stood with me, picked up his tool pouch, stuffed his gloves into his side pocket and followed me to the front door where Garcia was waiting.

  “How long have you been working here?” I said.

  “Almost two years,” he said. “Father Conlon helped get me the job.”

  I would check his credentials later. For now, I had no reason not to believe him.

  Garcia held the front door open and waited for Crockett. The rain had stopped, and the sun was cooking the blacktop enough to cause steam to rise from it.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  As Crockett walked past Garcia, he said, “Anytime…detective.”

  I didn’t like the way he’d said it.

  As I drove back to the precinct, I tried to think of the easiest way for me to break the news to Marlene. I would have to drive to the house in South Jersey and tell her in person, it’s not the kind of thing you do over the phone. The girls would be in school, and it would be best if they didn’t see Marlene’s initial reaction. She could tell them later in the way she thought would be best.

  St. Trinity Church in midtown had been our church since Marlene and I married. Although we were both born and cultivated in the New Jersey suburbs, I’d become involved with the church when Father Conlon transferred across the river from St. Michael’s. Andy Conlon had been a young priest at St. Michael’s when I was a boy. I attended his bible classes and spilled my guts to him in the confessional booth more times than I cared to remember. Although he was ten years my senior, we’d created a bond of friendship and a trust that lasted throughout the years. He married Marlene and I and baptized our girls. It was naturally expected that he’d perform the marriage ceremonies for Christie and Justine when their day came, an expectation that would never be fulfilled. After Marlene and I divorced, I drifted away from the fundamentals of formalized religion and as a result hadn’t seen Andy Conlon in almost a year until that morning.

  I parked in my usual spot at the precinct and climbed the stair to the homicide bureau on the second floor. When I walked in, the coolness of the air conditioning felt good against my damp shirt and reminded me of how much I wished the air conditioner in my Chevy Nova was still working. I needed a new ride, but those double child support payments negated that possibility.

  I sat down at my desk and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my ha
nds. Monday morning had started like a train wreck, and I was sure the rest of the week wouldn’t be better. There would be the unpleasant business of having to break the news to my mother, Marlene, and the kids and Andy’s father and sister, and then the anguish of a wake and funeral followed by an investigation into who and why someone would do this to a priest.

  When I opened my eyes and looked up, Danny Nolan was walking toward my desk. Under my auspices, Danny had evolved into a good detective and reliable partner. He was single, handsome, smart and ambitious; his two preoccupations in life were his police career and finding a wife. Although he’d only been in the bureau a few years, his good sense and natural perception for police work made him someone whose judgment I had learned to trust.

  “They haven’t started the autopsy yet,” he said, “but I can give you this much: the weapon of choice wasn’t a knife.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “ME says the wounds were punctures, made by something with a smooth shaft rather than a blade.”

  “Doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  “The holes were clean with no ragged edges—all twenty-two of them.”

  Queasy again.

  “Was a weapon found?”

  “Not much of anything found,” Danny said, “except prints. They’re running them now. When I get the sheets on the autopsy and the prints, I’ll get them to you right away.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He sat down in the chair beside my desk, leaned in closer to me and spoke in a low voice. “If there’s anything I can do, Max,” he said. “I mean...well, what I’m trying to say, is if you need me, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, Danny boy,” I said. “But, right now, what I have to do, I have to do alone. I’m on my way to tell Arthur Conlon, his son—the priest—has been brutally murdered.”

  Chapter 2

  Having to tell Andy Conlon’s eighty-five-year-old father, his only son had been murdered, was about as easy as swallowing a mouthful of fishhooks. The elder’s reaction was what one might expect: disbelief, then denial, and then devastation. Andy’s younger sister, Eileen, became so distraught; the family physician had to be called in to sedate her.